


The Ministry Olympics

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, HP: EWE, Humor, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is fed up with losing to Malfoy in the Ministry Olympics, but this year he has a plan. (Or, If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I went with the T-rating because there's very little sex or violence in this fic (crazy, I know), but Harry has a potty-mouth so watch out for errant swears.

Harry shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

From his perch on the marble base of the new Fountain of Magical Brethren, Percy drew another name from the cup. He paused before reading it (because he was an insufferable twat and couldn't resist reveling in even the most meaningless positions of authority, such as his recent appointment as Head of the Department of Magical Transportation; never mind the fact he'd been given the "promotion" because Kingsley couldn't stand having him around Level One any longer).

"Johnson," he announced haughtily.

 _ **Dammit!** Please don't say Malfoy, please don't say Malfoy_, Harry chanted silently, fingers crossed in his pockets, as the reedy undersecretary looked over the line of potential partners. His dishwater brown eyes skipped past Harry and Ron--everyone knew they were off-limits.

He grinned toothily after a moment's thought. "Longbottom."

Harry heaved a sigh of relief.

Neville did an admirable job keeping the disappointment off his face as he shuffled to stand next to his teammate, though his broad shoulders had a definite slump to them under his burgundy Aurors robes.

 _Better luck next year, Nev_ , Harry thought, tamping down a mean-spirited smirk.

Percy sniffed (prattishly) and reached back into the cup.

 _Come on, come on, come on,_ he desperately willed the next name to be his own. Despite the fact Malfoy wasn't particularly well-liked, you'd have to be an idiot (like Johnson) not to choose the reigning champion for a partner.

"Hopkirk."

_**Shit buggering fuck!** _

The wispy witch tittered and tucked a flyaway hair behind her ear as she perused the candidates. She didn't stand a chance of winning, but she was one of those "in it for the fun of it" types.

Harry held his breath as he waited.

"Eric Munch," she pronounced after a brief semblance of deliberation. He'd forgotten Mafalda was hopelessly smitten with the Watchwizard. Thank Merlin his luck hadn't failed him yet.

Percy's hand went into the cup once again.

Harry was beginning to feel lightheaded from all the breath-holding and fate-compelling he'd been doing. 

"Potter."

 _ **Yes!** _ Harry gave a little fist-pump of celebration. Everything was going according to plan.

"Malfoy!" he declared triumphantly. 

" _What?!_ " Ron's blue eyes were filled with a mix of confusion and wounded indignation as he gaped at his former teammate.

Harry flinched, some of the wind lost from his sails. "Sorry, Ron," he whispered in apology, cringing like a guilty crup. "but I'm bloody sick of losing to the git. That trophy is as good as mine this year."

Ron's mouth opened and closed like a fish, half-formed questions and accusations producing no sound.

"Watch who you're calling a git, Potty," Malfoy sneered, sauntering over to stand at his side. "I might just decide to throw the game."

"You wouldn't dare!" (A niggling voice reminded Harry that Malfoy was vindictive enough he just might.) "You're the only person in the whole Ministry who cares as much about the Games as me!"

"Hm," was all Malfoy said in reply, arching a perfect pale brow and smirking to himself.

The Ministry Olympics had been instituted by Kingsley five years ago as one of his first acts as Minister--an optimistic attempt to boost morale and interdepartmental cooperation. They took place the first weekend of February, a notoriously slow month for the Ministry, when many of the government's employees went on holiday to warmer climes and it was just too cold and dreary for run-of-the-mill criminals to venture outside.

Department Heads, members of the Wizengamot, and the Minister himself were barred from participation but everyone else was welcome. Though Kingsley had tried to incorporate challenges that played to the strengths of each office, everyone knew the Games were unfairly slanted in favour of the Aurors (apparently you could take the man out of the department, but you couldn't take the department out of the man). Aurors had earned the top three spots every one of the first three years, with Team Potter-Weasley taking gold each time.

Then Mafloy had decided to play.

Historically, the few Unspeakables who participated put up a good show--they tended to dominate cerebral games like Codes and Riddles and Curse Breaking--but they just couldn't compete with fully trained Aurors when it came to the more physical challenges like Magical Combat and Practical Defense.

Except for Malfoy. He and Peasegood had ranked first both years previous, leaving a bitter and disillusioned Harry in second. Honestly, it was a pity Malfoy hadn't decided to become an Auror, he'd be damn good at it. He was frighteningly good at every facet of the Olympics, the way Hermione would be if she thought they weren't a complete waste of time and Ministry resources and ever lowered herself enough to play.

As if reading his thoughts, Ron threatened ominously, "You asked for this," as his Jack Russell patronus scampered off down the hall, headed no doubt for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

 _ **Shit.** Shit shit shit._ If Ron could convince Hermione to partner with him (using the "woe is me, my supposed best mate abandoned me to team up with our childhood nemesis because winning is more important to him than friendship" card...which sounded convincing even to Harry), his currently-assured victory would be seriously threatened.

Right on cue, Weasley was the next name pulled from the cup.

" _Pass_ ," he declared, folding his arms across his chest and glaring bloody murder at Harry amidst continued murmurs of dismay.

"Oooh!" Malfoy gloated. "Now you've done it. Looks like I might have some real competition for once. Thanks for making it interesting, Scarhead."

"Sod off," Harry grumbled.

"Can't," he replied gleefully. "We're partners, remember?"

With a sinking feeling, Harry feared he had made a terrible mistake. But he firmed his jaw and tried to think rationally about the infuriating man standing beside him.

He'd been as surprised as anyone when, two years into his grueling Auror training, Malfoy joined the ranks of the Unspeakables. Harry had had his share of misgivings about letting the slimy, self-serving snake around all those secrets. But a little more than a year later, they worked together on a case that challenged Harry's preconceptions. _Macnair_. One of his first as a Senior Auror.

Harry grimaced to remember it. He'd unofficially been given the task of rounding up all remaining Death Eaters after the war. Robards seemed to think it fitting.

Macnair had managed to evade justice (again) after the Battle of Hogwarts, slinking out during the chaos and confusion of the aftermath. When no trace of him surfaced for months, it was assumed he'd fled the country and was living under a false name.

Then a glut of dark artefacts appeared on the black market (and with certain less-discriminating dealers in Knockturn Alley) that were traced back to several Death Eaters who'd been imprisoned or killed. That's when Malfoy was brought in, despite Harry's vehement opposition.

To his surprise, the Unspeakable proved to be competent and dependable in the field, knowledgable about his area of expertise (Artefact Identification and Containment), and professional, albeit a snarky and condescending brand of professional.

Also, he saved Harry's life. At great risk to his own. (Which goes quite a long way toward earning Harry's trust).

They'd closed in on Macnair and two of his associates, List and Trueblood, who'd made a tidy sum emptying out Death Eater caches and selling the contents. Harry had Macnair cornered, but the bastard wasn't going down without a fight.

His focus had been entirely consumed dodging the brutal curses that were hurled at him in rapid succession. That's why he'd had no idea about the Cutting Curse aimed right for his neck. It would have blown straight through any shield Malfoy could've cast, so he'd shoved Harry out of the way instead, taking the curse just below his left knee.

It severed his leg at the point of contact.

When Harry realized what had happened, he'd practically frothed at the mouth with rage and unleashed a blinding flurry of spells. By the time the dust had settled, all three dark wizards were grounded (Macnair dead, the other two bloodied and unconscious). Harry knew Auror backup would arrive any moment and Malfoy was clearly bleeding out, so he scooped up the Unspeakable and his leg and apparated directly to St. Mungo's.

Repairing curse wounds is tricky business. Harry would know. The Healers had done their best work (under the continuous threat of his most fearsome scowl, lest any of them consider subpar care good enough for an ex-Death Eater) and successfully reattached the limb and most of the severed nerves. One had to know to look for it to spot Malfoy's subtle limp. The distinctive cuff-like scar that remained was more noticeable, but Malfoy wouldn't be caught dead in anything as pedestrian as shorts, so few people would ever see it.

When he'd awakened in the hospital room hours after the procedure, Malfoy's grey eyes had gone from drowsy and unfocused to clear and alarmed within a second of registering the presence of both Harry and Narcissa at his bedside. But he took the news of his injury in stride. "What's another scar between friends, eh, Potter?" he'd quipped, hoarse voice weak, though his smirk was secure as ever.

They weren't friends. Not exactly. But over the last two years they'd become something like it. Malfoy was still an abominable prat, yet he had, by all accounts, grown up. He was no longer a petty, sniveling coward, but rather a self-possessed, capable man who'd grown a conscience as well as a backbone (and, if Harry was being perfectly honest, a rather fit body to accompany it) since the war. He was undeniably good at his job, and someone with whom Harry worked well and had come to respect.

And he was--

"Get your head out of the clouds, Potter. Our competition has arrived." Malfoy gestured with his pointy chin to the doorway wherein a very frowny Hermione stood, appraising the situation.

Her lips pursed even further as she took in Harry's proximity to Malfoy and contrasted it with her sulky husband's distance. She nodded decisively, pulled her bushy hair into a ponytail, tugged her blazer down over the waist of her skirt, and strode into the room. Her sensible, low-heeled shoes clicked softly on the out-dated linoleum; their steady _tap-click_ , _tap-click_ as intimidating as any war drum.

"Put my name in the cup please, Percy," she said primly, shooting Harry a pointed look.

Percy was caught off-guard by his sister-in-law's unexpected presence. While he gawked, Hermione transfigured her shoes into serviceable trainers and joined the lineup of unpartnered witches and wizards.

"Yes, well...Alright then," he spluttered, struggling to regain his composure.

It wasn't long before the remaining teams had been formed, Team Weasley-Granger-Weasley by far the most formidable among them.

"I left a mountain of unfinished paperwork on my desk for this," Hermione scolded, finger pointed accusingly at Harry's chest. "I had to reschedule _three_ different meetings, including one with the Goblin Coalition and you know how hard it is to arrange time with them. I hope you're happy."

Harry was guilt-striken. Before he could offer up a reply, however, Malfoy did for him.

"Of course he's happy, Granger. His current partner is a significant upgrade from last year's model. Not only will he most assuredly win the Games, but he has _me_ to look at instead of your freckled Weasel. Not that he's not a fine specimen of..." Malfoy looked Ron up and down. " _Gingerness_. At any rate, no one forced you to participate. Potter is no more responsible for you being here than your sullen significant other, and you did not have to respond to his pathetic summons."

All three of them stared at Malfoy in various states of shock and outrage. Had he implied that Harry had partnered with him in order to, what? _Leer_ at him? That was just absurd. Preposterous. Totally baseless. Harry didn't even think about Malfoy that way!

Predictably, Malfoy paid them no mind, feigning interest in Percy's droning recitation of the rules instead. He faced forward with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, head tilted ever-so-slightly upwards, presumably so he could look down his patrician nose at all things beneath his notice (which is to say, _all things_ ).

Now that Malfoy had put the idea in his head, Harry found he couldn't _not_ look at the smug tosser. He tried to be covert about it, at least, sneaking sideways glances rather than outright staring.

Malfoy styled his hair differently these days, close cropped at the sides but long on top and sort of...swoopy. It was a definite improvement over when it had always been slicked back with a cauldron-full of Sleekeazy's.

He was tall, several centimeters taller than Harry, but he carried his height well, not slouching like Ron or Neville, who never seemed quite comfortable with looming over everyone else. Malfoy didn't mind looming. His posture was impeccable. (Except when seated or relaxed, in which case he tended to lounge like a jungle cat, but somehow he made even that seem elegant and refined.)

The grey Unspeakables robes he wore suited him so well--making his pale skin look porcelain rather than washed out and lending a darker intensity to his storm-coloured eyes--that Harry wondered if they had played a part in his decision to work in the Department of Mysteries; he wouldn't put it past the narcissist.

His hands were narrow and fine-boned, with long piano player's fingers and slender wrists. Harry would not object to having those hands wrapped around his--

Ok. Maybe he did think about Malfoy that way. On occasion. Very rarely, he should say.

And perhaps his driving need to win wasn't the only reason he had wanted Malfoy for his partner. But it was most of it. Almost all of it, really. (Give or take a little.)

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry glimpsed Malfoy smirking and he felt a flush creep up his neck. He hoped against hope he hadn't been caught looking.

 _Note to self_ , he thought dismally, _just ask the bloke out for coffee next time_.

Harry was rubbish at pretense.


	2. Chapter 2

The first game was simple. Seven near-identical memos--differing only in their addressee and destination--had to be sent to each of the Ministry Department Heads. It required only the knowledge of who those individuals were and the most basic of office skills. Each memo that reached its intended target was worth five points, but a single misspelled word or dropped punctuation mark would disqualify the memo that contained the error.

The scoring system was different for each challenge in the Olympics but bonus points were awarded for any that had a timed element, like this one. For those games, the first team to complete the task earned an extra 10 points, second-place got five, and third-place got two. It wasn't much, but they added up. Harry and Ron had lost to Malfoy and Peasegood by a scant 15 points last year. The Hit Wizard was surprisingly quick on his feet and took orders from Malfoy well; he'd been obviously disappointed to lose his partner to Harry (the glares he was sending Harry while Percy explained the challenge were anything but subtle).

As they waited impatiently for the start of the round, Malfoy opined, "Anyone who doesn't think to use the Doubling Charm should be sacked on the spot. It's _painfully_ obvious."

Harry just rolled his eyes. It _was_ obvious, but Malfoy sounded like a pompous arse when he said things like that (which was often).

Shortly thereafter a magically amplified whistle blew and the competitors were off like a shot, Harry and Malfoy leading the pack.

Upon reaching their appointed table on the other side of the Atrium, Malfoy skidded to a halt and snatched up the only sheet of parchment with writing on it. Harry arrived just behind him, despite Malfoy's longer stride. Auror training was good for a few things.

Malfoy quickly scanned its contents, ostensibly to make sure the challenge was as straightforward as it appeared. Deeming it so, he imperiously commanded, "You do the spell. I'll address them. Your pathetic scrawl is so illegible the memos couldn't possibly discern where to go." He was barely out of breath, as though he hadn't just run a hundred metres across the polished wood floor.

"Never mind the fact that I successfully send inter-office memos nearly every day," Harry retorted, working on slowing his respiration back to baseline, "I can do you one better than a basic _geminio_. Hermione developed a variant that interprets the caster's intent and addresses the parchment for you. It's quite clever, really. It works just like a--"

"Less talking, more casting," Malfoy interrupted, holding up his hand for silence. _Wanker_. "If Granger invented the spell, she won't be taking the time to explain it to the Weasel. You can fill me in on the finer points later."

Harry huffed a long-suffering sigh but did as he was told because Malfoy was (annoyingly) right.

A few moments and four precise wand flicks later, a small flock of purple paper airplanes zoomed overhead, splitting off every which way to track down their recipients as soon as they were oriented.

"Good work, Potter," Malfoy said offhandedly as they hoofed it back to the Fountain to await the announcement of final scores.

Harry pretended he wasn't grinning like an idiot over the perfunctory praise, but there was an undeniable spring in his sprint.

When he and Malfoy arrived at the Fountain it was to discover that his best friends had beaten them there. _Bollocks_. They were the only ones who had and they shared a gloating smirk at Harry's expense. But he and Malfoy got full points for the round--as did Team Weasley-Granger-Weasley, unsurprisingly. With the bonuses factored in, only five points separated them. That would be easy enough to make up.

Harry surreptitiously peeked at Malfoy and saw the ghost of a genuine smile drift across his face. It did funny things to his insides (which made him want to do funny things to Malfoy, in turn). 

He was pretty sure Malfoy was gay--or at least bisexual--due to the compelling evidence of The Night That Was Best Left Forgotten.

He'd gone out drinking with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and a few other friends one evening last fall. Malfoy also happened to be at the pub, which wasn't that shocking in and of itself. Lots of Ministry-types frequented the Rusty Anchor because of its close proximity to the government building; it was a good place to grab a pint after work.

What was shocking, however, was the way Malfoy appeared to be trying to perform a tonsillectomy on the fit bloke whose lap he straddled, using only his tongue.

"Always knew he was a poof," Ron had declared amidst a chorus of guffaws, speculation, and cat calls.

"Oi Malfoy!" Seamus yelled, hands cupped around his mouth to be heard over the din of the pub. "Can I have the next go?" 

Harry's tablemates laughed like hyenas.

Malfoy flipped a two-fingered salute over his shoulder without interrupting his furious snogging. Feeling queasy, Harry excused himself to the loo, wherein he learned a surprising thing or two about himself after a few minutes' urgent reflection.

When he returned to the table, he tried valiantly to drink away his newfound insight. Realizing ale wasn't going to cut it, he ordered a bottle of firewhiskey and embraced the burn. Ron gave him a searching look but didn't ask any questions. Which was just as well--Harry wouldn't have answered them anyway.

Malfoy and his date disappeared at some point and Harry drank until he blacked out for the first (and last) time in his life.

Ron had taken him home, poured him into bed, and left a phial of hangover potion on his nightstand because he was just that kind of friend. He also never brought up the incident after the fact because he really was an all-around fantastic bloke.

Harry almost regretted that he would have to beat him at the Games.

But then he glanced at Malfoy--months' old jealousy gnawing at his gut and incipient determination making his heartbeat thrum--and he knew he'd made the right decision.

Although he owed Ron big time. Maybe box seats at the next Cannon's match. Or, hell, season tickets. He could afford them. And optimism put Harry in a generous mood. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Friday discount: two chapters for the price of one! ;)

For the Magical Combat and Practical Defense challenge, participants were randomly sorted into three categories: Auror, hostage, and dark wizard. Aurors and dark wizards got 25 points for every hostage they managed to save or retain, respectively, and 10 points for every member of the opposing side they "incapacitated" with a harmless marking spell. No offensive spells were allowed, but defensive ones could be used with abandon.

The round was 30 minutes long--10 for each team to develop a strategy and get into position and 20 for the actual combat. Hostages had to sit like a ruddy bump on a log that whole time, while their teammates had all the fun.

Harry was sorted hostage.

He was Not Pleased.

Malfoy didn't even try restraining his glee at being sorted Auror. Ron got dark wizard, which was fine by him since it meant getting to splatter Malfoy's pristine robes with ink. That left Hermione to pout with Harry and the other hostages in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office were the dark wizards were stationed.

"You be a good little hostage and wait to be rescued," Malfoy instructed condescendingly before they separated. "No daring heroics or Gryffindor idiocy allowed, understood? You'll just get in my way."

Harry seethed long after his obnoxious partner had left with the other "Aurors" to the staging area set up for them in the real Auror Department on the opposite end of Level 2. He half-hoped Ron would tag the git, even though that meant falling even further behind their team in points.

"You and Malfoy seem to be getting on well," Hermione observed archly as she obediently submitted to Ron's binding of her wrists behind her back with a gentle _incarcerous_.

"Yeah? Well you two seem rather well-practiced with those ropes," Harry retorted, tone snide.

Hermione blushed a vibrant scarlet while Ron cleared his throat guiltily and Harry wished he could unlearn what he'd just unwittingly discovered about his longest and dearest friends. Maybe a spot of mild Obliviation would do...

Peasegood provided a welcome distraction from the disturbing imagery by escorting Harry to the opposite corner. Harry remembered he had been an Obliviator before transferring over to the Hit Wizard Squad, maybe he'd to do the honors. 

"No talking to the other hostages or I'll cast a _muffliato_ on the lot of you," Peasegood said gruffly, enjoying the role of dark wizard far too much, in Harry's opinion. "Don't want you getting any barmy ideas 'bout tryin' to escape." He bound Harry's arms and legs with a not-so-gentle _incarcerous_. 

" _Oi!_ It's just a game, Peasegood," Harry complained as the ropes twisted his limbs uncomfortably. "You don't have to make them so bloody tight."

The Hit Wizard shrugged his ox-like shoulders. " _You_ didn't have to steal my partner," he sneered.

So that's how it was going to be.

Harry huffed in resignation and shimmied into a more comfortable position, propped against the wall. He then set about thinking of ways to make a daring escape and take as many hostages as possible with him. Each one would widen the spread between his team and Ron and Hermione's by 50 points because they were on opposing sides. It would be especially gratifying if he could manage to take Hermione with him. She'd hate that.

Harry smiled meanly and let possible scenarios unfold in his mind, surreptitiously shifting his wrists against each other to gain some slack in the line.

Minutes later and with no brilliant plan or fortuitous opportunity having presented itself yet (and with nothing but a nasty friction burn to show for his effort with the ropes), a thick, choking smoke began filling the room. Harry heard the sounds of battle but couldn't see anything from his low vantage point. His eyes watered and he turned his head sharply to breathe against his shoulder in the hope his robes would filter out some of the noxious fumes.

A sudden presence at his side made him start. "You look good tied up like that," Malfoy teased, voice a husky caress that sent Harry's pulse rate soaring. He cut away the bindings with an efficient  _diffindo_ and Harry sprung to standing.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded even as his face flamed. (He'd blame it on the smoke if anyone asked.) Possible interpretations of the taunt were fairly limited--either Malfoy was taking the piss or he meant it sincerely.

Temporarily forgotten images of Ron and Hermione in the bedroom returned, blurring into a wholly inappropriate tableau of him and Malfoy in a similar state of debauchery. He coughed to hide his embarrassment (and because the stupid spell had left his throat raw) and rubbed at his sore writs. Feeling was returning to his hands and feet with the annoying prickle of pins and needles.

Malfoy just gave him an enigmatic expression and motioned for Harry to follow.

They snuck around the perimeter of the room, sticking close to the wall for guidance through the oppressive haze. Harry didn't know how many dark wizards were still in fighting condition but he could hear shouting from at least two different directions, which suggested an active engagement. 

"We should try to free more hostages," he whispered hoarsely.

Malfoy jerked his head in a curt refusal and lead a reluctant Harry down the hall. From the way he seemed to be breathing without impairment and not blinking away tears, he must've had some kind of immunity or defense against the augmented _fumos_.

"I assume that was your Smokescreen?" Harry said when they were safely within the confines of the Auror offices. "It had your irritating flair."

Malfoy smirked. "Langers', actually. But thank you for the compliment. You're welcome for the dashing and heroic rescue, by the way."

"I think your rescue may have given me a lung disease," Harry deadpanned, underscoring his point with a hacking cough.

"So ungrateful," Malfoy admonished. Nevertheless, he cast an air clearing charm and Harry felt immediate relief from the burning, stinging pain in his eyes, nose, and throat.

"Thanks for that," he replied grudgingly. "Next time maybe cast it sooner, yeah?"

"I would think a Senior Auror should have received training in the the counter-spells for such basic dueling charms," Malfoy drawled. 

"That wasn't a basic _fumos_ ," Harry argued defensively.

"No, but the counter-spell is the same." Malfoy leaned his hip against a desk and crossed his arms, smirk even more firmly in place.

Merlin, Harry felt like an idiot. Why hadn't he thought to try the spell? Malfoy was right, he had learned it, and in his first year of training, no less. Waiting helplessly for Malfoy to solve the problem for him was just pathetic. Harry was an Auror, for Godrick's sake, not a damsel in distress.  _  
_

He was spared further self-loathing by the whistle that signaled the end of the round. Small blessings. 

In the final tally, three hostages had been freed, but five were kept, Hermione among them. _Bugger all._  Four dark wizards had been taken out, at least. The Aurors lost only one. (No surprise it was Perkins--the hapless berk was as clumsy as a newborn calf).

Those numbers bumped up Team Weasley-Granger-Weasley's advantage over Harry's team to 25 points and put two other teams--Peasegood-Rawlins and Proudfoot-Savage--ahead of them in the current standings.

The only thing that took some of the bite out of the disappointing results was the fact Malfoy had nailed Ron right in the face with his marking spell--the blue ink splashed across the side of his head made Ron's smug countenance much easier to bear. And it was made better still when Hermione restrained her protesting husband to spell the stain away with her trademark scourgify, a charm so abrasive it left Ron's skin pink and shiny when she was through.

"Serves him right for being a poor sport," Harry muttered, and Malfoy snickered at his side. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently out of town on business so I just have a little chapter for you today. But if my evening plans end up being boring, I may bust another one out ;)

"Step aside," Malfoy dismissed, flouncing to the long table that had been set up for Hazardous Substance Identification. "Let a professional do his job."

"Your job is as an Unspeakable, you pompous knob," Harry countered (without heat), "And you specialize in artefacts, not substances."

Malfoy merely shrugged and leaned over to do a first pass visual inspection of the assorted bottles, phials, and jars.

Harry may or may not have done a visual inspection of his own and determined there was something to be said for well-tailored trousers. That something was, 'yes, please. Very much so.'

" _Bloodroot. Erumpent horn fluid. Hellebore. Deadlyius_ ," Malfoy ticked off the names from sight alone, expression bored. "I swear, it's like they're not even trying."

Harry couldn't write the answers down as fast as he was giving them. If one stumped him, Malfoy just skipped it and moved immediately to the next, so Harry didn't even have a chance to shake out the writer's cramp that was beginning in the side of his hand (which Hermione would gladly inform him was from gripping the quill too tightly but how else could he be expected to keep up?). 

The few substances Malfoy wasn't totally sure of after his once over were treated to a careful wafting--he'd unstopper the cork or unscrew the cap and wave his hand over the container for a cautious sniff, expression one of deep contemplation. Harry could barely tell which of the piles of clothes on his bedroom floor were dirty and which had been laundered by smell alone, but Malfoy's pureblood nose could identify Acromantula venom, Bulbadox powder, and Sneezewort from ten centimeters away. (His wafting technique had served him particularly well with that last one; a careless sniff would have resulted in an unpleasant sneezing fit.)

Just one substance made it past Malfoy's first two senses--a fine white powder in a large, clear glass jar. He examined it with a steadily deepening frown.

"I can't place this one," he uttered in disbelief after a full minute of inspecting it from every angle and nearly putting his nose all the way into the container (safety precautions be damned).

Brow furrowed, he cast a spell on his hand that Harry used often in the field (and occasionally in a more romantic context)--a variant of the shield charm that created a thin magical barrier between one's skin and whatever it came in contact with, critical for preserving evidence and avoiding contamination.

He dipped his index finger into the jar and rubbed the clinging powder against his thumb, testing its consistency. "It's sweet-smelling, fine, and slightly sticky," he muttered to himself,  trying to jog his own memory rather than consulting with his teammate. "More so when wet."

Harry was reasonably sure he'd figured it out but thought it best to give Malfoy a chance. After several more seconds of him glowering at his own hand, Harry strode over, swiped his finger against Malfoy's, and popped it into his mouth.

" _Merlin's tits_ , Potter!" he squawked. "That could be lethal! You can't just go around putting unknown substances in your mouth!"

"Hasn't killed me yet," Harry replied with a lopsided grin. "And that mystery substance is icing sugar, as I suspected."

" _Icing sugar?_ " Malfoy repeated, incredulous. He stuck his own finger into his mouth and grimaced. "Ugh. This whole bloody Game was designed by Gryffindors," he proclaimed in disgust. 

Harry chuckled. "You must secretly like us more than you let on given your enthusiasm for the competition," he jibed.

He didn't think he imagined the spots of color that bloomed on Malfoy's cheeks before the Unspeakable picked up the quill to finish noting their answers on the parchment.

  _Interesting_. 

They left in a hurry to submit the sheet to Percy's lackeys for scoring. They were the first team to do so. Harry beamed at Malfoy as he braced his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath after the run. Malfoy's answering smile was brief, but thrilling. 

Perkins and Willow arrived next and Perkins nearly took Percy out stumbling on the Fountain's base in his haste to turn in his parchment. Percy was unimpressed; his glare as he straightened his robes was as hazardous as some of the substances in the challenge. It was fortunate for Perkins that the scoring system was objective.

The other teams started trickling in. Results were announced shortly after the last--Hopkirk and Munch--jogged to their place. 

Between Malfoy's expertise and Harry's Gryffindor-ishness, they managed a perfect score for the challenge. Harry was ecstatic. The only other team to do so was Ron and Hermione. But Malfoy beat their time by nearly two minutes. Hermione's scowl had been endlessly gratifying. And Malfoy's self-satisfied smirk entirely justified for a change. 

"You did good, Malfoy," Harry acknowledged.

"I did _well_ ," he corrected, making Harry snort, "but thanks all the same." He bumped Harry with his shoulder in a surprisingly friendly gesture.

Harry's cheeks ached from how hard he was suppressing his grin. From across the way, Hermione narrowed her eyes speculatively.

 _Of course she noticed_. The woman could have a very promising career as an Unspeakable if politics ever lost its appeal.


	5. Chapter 5

The Stealth and Concealment challenge was basically muggle hide-and-seek plus magic. It was Harry's second-favourite game in the Olympics.

The rules said anything goes except dark magic and person-concealing or detecting artifacts (which the Unspeakables always grumbled about, but Harry didn't mind even though it meant he couldn't use his invisibility cloak). The round spanned the entire Ministry complex (excluding the Department of Mysteries, for obvious reasons) and lasted 60 minutes, during which each team tried to locate as many other teams as they could without being spotted themselves. To make it more of a challenge, teammates had to be within a half-meter of one another at all times.

Once a team was found, they were eliminated from the remainder of the game. Each opposing team discovered was worth 10 points. Any team that made it the entire hour without being spotted earned a 50-point bonus. Because of this, some chose to hunker down in the best hiding places they could find in the hopes they wouldn't be discovered.

Others, like Harry, elected to take the risk of being detected while searching, trying for as many points as possible. The strategy usually paid off for him, especially last year when he and Ron had the genius idea of using polyjuice to hide in plain sight as Kingsley and Percy, two individuals everyone expected to see at the Games and wouldn't think to question. Though they hadn't managed to find Malfoy and Peasegood, they'd beaten their score by 10 points (and hadn't that felt good).

Malfoy gave him a shrewd look. "How well can you keep a secret?" he asked as they made their way to the staging area near the Floos.

"I am the Secret Keeper for five different Fidelius Charms," Harry replied matter-of-factly.

"Do you happen to know which division of the Department of Mysteries I work in when I'm not busy cataloging all the artefacts you lot bring in?"

Harry didn't. It had long been a source of curiosity for him. He shook his head.

"The Time Room," Malfoy revealed. "And I happen to know a spell that is very useful in this game. I still can't believe you beat us last year," he added as an aside. "Polyjuice was an inspired strategy."

Harry grinned and didn't even try hiding it.

"Anyway," Malfoy continued, "it's top-secret, so you can never use it--in fact I will require you to have your eyes closed and your back turned while I cast it--but it isn't dark and is within the bounds of the rules, if only just."

"What does it do?" Harry asked, intrigued and wary both.

"The spell disrupts the flow of time around the caster, like a boulder in a stream. Without getting too technical, it will make us harder to detect, as we won't exactly be in the same current as the other players."

That sounded risky (and of dubious legality). "Not being in the same 'current' means what, exactly?" he pressed. 

"Practically, it means that if someone spots us, we'll be able to phase back to the moments just before we were detected and alter our position enough to avoid being found."

 _Alter position, eh?_ "Did you use it last year?" Harry asked, although he was fairly sure he knew the answer already. 

"And the one before that," Malfoy smirked. "You'll note that my team was not eliminated from either game." 

Harry scoffed. It figured Malfoy would have found a way to cheat without technically cheating. "A spell like that seems extremely powerful but not very useful outside of this context," he remarked. "What's the point of being able to travel just a few moments back in time?"

Malfoy's expression became sober. "It's long enough to redeem a single mistake," he replied softly, the regret in his tone betraying the ways he might have used such a spell in the past.

Pieces of understanding shifted into place in Harry's mind. "Is that why you study time?" he asked.

"Yes."

The single word carried enough weight to sink a ship. Harry had never been good at dealing with strong feelings, probably due to his upbringing. They made him uneasy.

"Right. Well." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Let's get back to winning, shall we?"

Malfoy seemed relieved he'd let the subject drop.

"Yes, let's," he smiled.

It was just a crinkling of eyes and a tiny quirk of lips, but it was enough to make Harry's chest feel warm and tight. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that smile--the real one, which was neither ironic nor sneering--being directed at him. It was almost unsettlingly sweet.

After casting a thick disillusionment charm on the both of them, plus a notice-me-not and a muffling charm on their shoes, he looked side-to-side to make sure their privacy was intact, then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Ron favors the loos and storage closets for hiding, though Hermione is a wildcard. I suspect she'll gravitate towards records rooms, her home away from home. Neville tends to stay near Level Two as it's most familiar to him, and Johnson will follow his lead. The same goes for Proudfoot and Savage, but they'll cover more ground. They're methodical in their searching.

"I expect Perkins and Willow and Hopkirk and Munch to hide the whole time--it's the best strategy for them since they don't stand a chance of finding anyone. You and Peasgood were always on the move but I'm not sure what he'll do with Rawlins this time around. I don't know about the rest."

Malfoy had nodded along with Harry's report. "Peasegood will travel," he confirmed. "He can't stay still for long, far too impatient. Williamson and Langers can usually be found near the café or the lifts and Croaker likes the Department of Magical Transportation because it connects to the Floos and one can apparate in the Apparation Test Centre," he supplied.

Harry did the math to work out that there were only three teams they didn't have at least some insight into, which was none too shabby. He felt good about their prospects for making up the 20 point defect that was currently between them and first place. 

"What should our strategy be, then? Ron will expect something crafty, so the straightforward approach might be better," he suggested. 

"And what might that be--calling into supposedly empty rooms to see if any of our opponents answer?" Malfoy inquired dryly.

 _Now that he mentioned it..._ "That's not a bad idea, actually." Malfoy arched a skeptical brow. "Ron's got a whole crate of Wheezes in our office--there's got to be an Extendable Ear or two in there. We can use one to listen in on a room before entering--maybe we'll catch someone whispering inside. I know a surveillance spell to amplify sound that should be within the the rules."

Malfoy appeared to consider it. "I suppose that's not the worst idea I've ever heard," he drawled eventually.

Harry gave him his blandest expression. "Stop. You'll make me blush," he intoned.

"It wouldn't be the first time today," Malfoy replied with a knowing gleam, and Harry had to fight hard against his joke turning into an embarrassing self-fulfilling prophesy.

"But how will we avoid the Weasel? He might have a similar idea seeing as they are his Wheezes."

Harry had an answer for that. "We'll Floo into the Auror Department."

"There isn't a Floo in there," Malfoy objected, but he sounded as if he was doubting his certainty.

Harry grinned. "There is in Robards' office. And I happen to know two useful bits of information--the access code and the fact Kingsley will have Robards with him for the entirety of the Games. He likes to use them as an opportunity for informal performance reviews, you see."

"Clever," Malfoy admitted. "If we're quick enough, we can be in and out before anyone else will arrive from the lifts."

"Exactly."

With their plan in place, it was a simple matter to procure the Ear (and a few other useful-looking Wheezes) after Percy blew the starting whistle, although Harry nearly fell arse over teakettle getting out of the Floo.

"How is it that you move with a ballerina's grace when in the middle of a life-threatening duel but you always stumble like a drunken sailor from a Floo?" Malfoy wondered aloud.

"I'm just that complex?" Harry offered with what he hoped was a winsome grin.

Malfoy snorted. Harry considered it a win.

They elected to lie in wait for Neville and Johnson before leaving to scour Level One and the gamble paid off--they caught the pair not five minutes later trying to sneak into the office of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad.

It just wasn't Neville's year. Poor sod.

From there they climbed an emergency stairwell to the Minister's level.

Harry deactivated the automatic alarm on the door with spellwork fine enough to earn even more of Malfoy's meagre praise (it was a right banner day for that). Finding the floor empty, they hid under the Senior Undersecretary's desk and set up for surveillance, thinking it likely that at least one other team would have a similar idea to use the ordinarily off-limits location for a hiding spot.

Sure enough the Ear picked up whispers coming from the Advisor's office and they found Proudfoot and Savage combing the room.

Harry wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed to be freed from the close confines of the desk. Being that close to Malfoy without being able to say or do anything but listen for noises and look for patterns in the carpet had been a unique struggle.

Deciding the Floos were no longer safe for travel with Croaker and Scaffidi monitoring them, they returned to the stairwell and snuck to Hermione's stomping grounds.

Since her department was the second largest in the Ministry, they figured there were plenty of places to hide and a good chance they weren't the only ones who thought so. Ten minutes of searching, however, turned up no one and they didn't want to hang around and risk being caught.

Just as Harry yanked open the door for the stairs, he heard a shout from behind.

"You're out, Potter!" Peasegood yelled from down the hall as he and Langers jogged to catch up.

Harry's heart sank. It was still so early in the round!

"Eyes closed, Potty," Malfoy whispered.

After a confusing (and oddly thrilling) moment, Harry remembered the time spell. He closed his eyes and waited.

"No, Malfoy!" he heard Peasegood whine. "That isn't fair!"

"You didn't protest when I used it for us," Malfoy retorted, smirk evident in his voice. Then he uttered an incantation Harry couldn't begin to translate. 

Harry suddenly felt like he was plunged underwater...if water had the consistency of cool marmalade and tried to suck his insides out through his orifices as it sloshed by. It was accompanied by a loud whooshing in his ears and the distinct impression his bones had turned to mush.

It was...not pleasant.

"Come on," Malfoy urged, taking his hand and pulling him quickly into the stairwell. "The sensation will pass. A bloke in our department refers to it as 'wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff.' He's a bit eccentric."

Harry feared his brains had been scrambled by the spell because Malfoy seemed to be speaking nonsense and holding his hand, and neither one of those things was normal.

"You'll have your legs back under you in a minute," Malfoy was saying, "but we need to get moving in case Peasegood comes this way."

Harry followed as best he could and was relieved to find the odd sensation did, in fact, wear off quickly.

"I think I'm ok now," he said. "You don't need to hold my hand anymore."

"Oh. Right." Malfoy quickly let go, looking sheepish.

Harry didn't mean to embarrass him, he even kind of sort of liked the hand holding, he'd just felt a little silly is all. Then he'd gone and cocked it up. _Typical._

After another (awkward, silent) minute, they doubled back and caught Rawlins and a disgruntled Peasegood in the perennially-empty Centaur Liaison Office.

"You used the spell didn't you, Malfoy?" Peasegood had (rightly) accused. "I know you did."

Malfoy had ignored him until the Hit Wizard became agitated enough to pose a threat, then he'd cast a perfunctory _confundus_ from his hip. Even Harry hadn't seen the wand move and he usually had a good eye for that sort of thing. 

"You should collect your partner, Rawlins," Malfoy instructed haughtily. "He seems to have become disoriented." 

In point of fact, Peasegood was staring at the ceiling and drooling slightly. Malfoy apparently had a good deal of power behind his _confundus_. Harry thought it would be prudent to avoid being on the receiving end of one of them. 

The rest of the round was much less eventful. They searched in the vicinity of the café and the lifts, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and the Magical Maintenance Department, but they were unsuccessful in finding anyone else. There were also no more incidents of semi-awkward physical contact or horrible time spells, so that was good. Mostly. 

Three finds ended up being the best any team did that year (Harry and Ron's standing record from the second year of the Games was five). Harry had hoped for better, but 80 points for the round was nothing to complain about.

Ron and Hermione had caught two teams and managed to avoid detection, as well. Harry was itching to know what their strategy had been. He'd ask over a pint that evening, if they were feeling forgiving enough to let him buy. 

With only 10 points separating them, the final game would decide it all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two geeky quotes hiding in this chapter. One is obvious, but a virtual cookie goes to whoever can spot the subtle one.


	6. Chapter 6

The final challenge was always a race through the Ministry. It was Harry's favourite--a straightforward, no frills contest of speed and strategy. The first team across the finish line scored a whopping 50 points. It was 40 for second place, 30 for third, and so on, with no points at all for any team after fifth.

He and Ron had never lost.

The starting position was different every time so participants from other years had less of an advantage over newcomers, but it always ended at the Fountain, where final standings for the whole of the Games were announced to what was usually a fairly sizable crowd of spectators. The particular route used was up to the discretion of each team but all of the levels of the Ministry must be visited over the course of the race and it had to be completed on foot--no brooms, magic carpets, creature mounts, or anything of the sort were allowed.

And this year there was a twist, Percy revealed with malevolent glee: it was to be a three-legged race.

Harry gulped audibly. Not only would that be incredibly difficult on a practical level, but to be physically attached to Malfoy was an alarming prospect.

Stuffing his anxiety down into the bottom of his stomach (a tried and true approach for dealing with uncomfortable emotions), Harry pragmatically asked his partner if it would be better for him to have his bad leg free or to let Harry bear some of its weight.

"Announce it to the whole Ministry, why don't you," Malfoy chided, smacking him on the arm with the back of his hand.

"Everyone already knows," Harry argued, moving out of striking range in case he went for another shot. "It was in all the papers. You saved my life--it was kind of a big deal."

"Yes, but they don't have to know there were any lingering effects," Malfoy claimed like that should have been obvious. 

It didn't make much sense to Harry, but very little about Malfoy did, so he let it go.

"Left leg or right leg?" he asked simply. 

Malfoy frowned, mulling it over. "Left," he ultimately decided.

One of Percy's lackeys (whose name Harry couldn't manage to remember) applied a liberal sticking charm that sealed their trousers together from hip to cuff.

"That had better not damage the seams," Malfoy warned the spotty intern with a baleful glare.

"Stop scaring the kid, Malfoy," Harry interjected.

His partner turned his icy glare on him instead, but just then Percy called for runners to take their positions.

The teams did so with greater and lesser degrees of coordination. Harry was already making predictions about how each one would fair in the challenge. Proudfoot and Savage looked steady, as did Ron and Hermione and Peasegood and Rawlins. If Harry was a betting man, he'd put money on them rounding out the top four.

"Hey, Malfoy," he whispered. "A galleon says your former teammate, the Aurors, and my best friends all make top 5 with us."

Malfoy sniffed derisively. "That's a fool's bet. They're already in the top positions--it stands to reason they will do well in this race."

"You're no fun," Harry pouted.

"So I've been told."

The starting whistle interrupted Harry's chance to reply. _Shit_. They hadn't even worked out a strategy yet.

"Start at Level One and work our way down?" Malfoy suggested hurriedly.

"Brill," Harry replied, already pulling Malfoy toward the Lifts.

It was difficult getting the timing right with their legs connected like that, but it wasn't long until they fell into a (slightly ungainly) stride. Harry was pleased to note that focusing on the race was distracting him from just how close they were--especially after Malfoy suggested they put their arms around each other for balance.

Almost every other team had had the same idea to take the Lifts all the way up, so they crammed in with most of the rest of their competitors. Harry was practically vibrating from all the adrenaline that had no outlet during the painfully slow ride to the Administrative Level. No one spoke or made eye contact. It was almost unbearably tense.

When the lift dinged to signal its arrival and the wrought golden grilles finally opened, everyone spilled out like the snakes-in-a-can muggle novelty toy Dudley had scared Harry with once. Malfoy dragged him in the direction of the emergency stairs they'd had so much practice with during the previous round, but Harry dug in his heels.

"I know a shortcut," he explained, leading Malfoy in the opposite direction. "As long as you don't have any qualms breaking into the Minister's office."

Malfoy chuckled. "That's on my bucket list, actually," he replied.

"Perfect."

They worked like two halves of a whole dismantling the heavy wards on the door--anticipating and complementing the others' delicate spellwork, augmenting each other's charms, and stepping in with a stabilizing field when someone made an inevitable misstep.

"You're sure this short cut is worth it, Potter?" Malfoy asked, brushing sweat off his brow as they neared the three minute mark of working on the door. "Not that this isn't thrilling."

Harry snorted. "We're almost in and it's definitely worth it. It's the Minister's secret escape route--tunnels that connect to every floor of the Ministry in the event an emergency evacuation is needed."

Malfoy looked intrigued. "But how will the Minister feel about you using a state secret for this ignoble purpose?" he queried.

"Kingsley usually has money riding on me and Ron to win, so I'm sure it'll be fine," he dismissed airily.

Malfoy raised a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't argue.

"Once we're inside, it'll be a simple matter of following the tunnels down to Level Seven, then backtracking to Transportation so we can Floo into the Atrium and sprint the last bit to the Fountain," Harry instructed.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's a good plan, Potter."

"Hah! All these compliments are going to give me a swollen head."

"Don't worry--I still think you're an idiot."

"Thank Merlin for that."

With one last magical push, Harry bent the wards enough to get to the lock and open the door. He and Malfoy tumbled in and caught themselves on Kingsley's massive walnut desk.

"Over here," Harry gestured to a life-sized painting of Ulick Gamp, first British Minister for Magic.

He tapped his wand on the Minister's nose, his left ear, and then his right hand, and the painting swung open to reveal a portal into a dark tunnel of rough-hewn stone.

With only wand light and Harry's internal sense of direction to guide them, they made their way into the depths of the Ministry.

Besides a brush with a cobweb that made Malfoy scream like a girl (and threaten to eviscerate Harry if he said a single word about it), the going was easy. They made it to Games and Sports in no time flat.

From there it was a simple thing to climb the stairs (ok, that part wasn't so simple with their legs stuck together, but they managed) and dash to the Floo Network Authority to Floo the rest of the way to the Atrium.

Unfortunately, Harry was unaccustomed to the extra bulk of another person when traveling by fireplace, and he fell hard upon arrival, taking Malfoy down with him.

Surprise and disorientation caused him to remain longer than was prudent sprawled across the prone form of his equally-stunned teammate. And Harry found he wasn't much interested in trying to disentangle himself and get up, though he really should. It was rude to squash one's partner. _And_ they were right in front of the Floo--if anyone else tried to use it, they'd trip right over them. Never mind their audience.

But Malfoy hadn't pushed him off yet and Harry decided he quite liked the feel of that long, lithe body against his own, panting chest heaving and breath warm. And from this close, he could see a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of Malfoy's nose and flecks of dark slate in his pale grey eyes and the faintest of wrinkles between his brows.

They made Malfoy seem...softer. More human.

His wide eyes dropped to Harry's mouth and the pink tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

That was all the invitation Harry needed.

He cradled Malfoy's head in his hands and kissed him for all he was worth. Improbably, Malfoy kissed him back--giving as good as he got (and then some).

"Sweet Merciful Merlin," Harry whimpered, when they broke apart for air.

Malfoy smirked, still making no move to stand.

Harry decided it was now or never. "Do you want--that is, if you're not too busy...might you be, um, amenable to, uh--"

"Salazar, Potter," Malfoy interrupted with a huff. "Out with it! Preferably, before I die of old age."

"DoYouWantToGetCoffeeWithMe?" he blurted before his Gryffindor courage failed him.

"Coffee?" Malfoy echoed blankly. "No. I detest the stuff."

Harry's stomach turned sour in confusion and disappointment.

"Oh, ok. Right. Sorry. I just--"

"I wouldn't say no to dinner, however," Malfoy interjected, eyes sparkling with mischief.

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to process what had just happened, but when he did, he let the git's head fall to the ground with a satisfying thunk.

"Ow!"

"You deserved that. Now up you get, you enormous wanker," he said after rolling unsteadily to his knees and offering a hand up. "We have a race to finish."

They weren't dead last, but it was a near thing. They managed to squeak just ahead of team Hopkirk-Munch and Harry couldn't help but notice the pair seemed nearly as disheveled and breathless as he and Malfoy.

Hermione took one look at them and smirked knowingly.

"Too bad you had that dead weight dragging you down this year, eh, Harry?" Ron taunted.

"Actually, it was the other way around, Weasel," Malfoy clarified.

Harry swatted him on the side as Ron narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if he'd missed something important. (He had.) 

Needless to say, they didn't win gold that year. That spot went to Team Weasley-Granger-Weasley, and deservedly so. In a tremendous upset, Team Potter-Malfoy hadn't even medalled. But Harry found he didn't mind terribly.

He'd won a better prize.

\------

_Later that evening, over an apology pint or three at the Rusty Anchor..._

"So anyway, that's why I had to abandon you for Malfoy," Harry explained to an incredulous Ron. "It wasn't personal. You're the best partner I've ever had, on the Force and in the Olympics. But he's obsessed with winning the Games so it was the best chance I had for spending real time with him outside of a case, and it worked--we've got a date tomorrow evening!"

Ron blinked slowly, frowning.

"Oh Harry," Hermione sighed (as though he was the most pitifully ignorant creature in existence), "you don't really think it's the _Games_ that Malfoy's obsessed with, do you?"

"Erm...no?" (Yes he did. That's why he'd said it.)

"Harry," she said in her 'explaining things to imbeciles' voice, which was usually reserved for him and Ron, "You and Malfoy have been infatuated with one another for ages. How you've managed to live in your little bubble of denial all these years is beyond me. This has been going on since Hogwarts. I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy became an Unspeakable just to have a chance of seeing you at work."

Harry was dumbstruck. Could that really be true?

"You don't think it was for the snappy robes?" he joked lamely.

Hermione didn't dignify it with an answer, but her tight-lipped, raised-eyebrow expression spoke volumes.

"He participates in the Olympics because you do. And he tries to win because you do," she explained succinctly. "That's the only reason I agreed to team up with Ron--so you two would have a chance to play together and bond over having a shared rival."

" _What?_ " Ron demanded, affronted.

No one answered (or paid him any mind).

"Ron told me you drunk yourself into a stupor months ago because you happened to see Malfoy snogging some man in that booth over there--" Harry's head whipped to the traitor, who had the good grace to look shamefaced.

"You try keeping a secret from her, mate," he said defensively. "It's bloody impossible. Case in point: you and Malfoy."

With a twist in his gut, Harry returned his attention to Hermione, unsure if he was ready to hear anything more she had to say on the subject.

"As I was saying," she continued prissily, "I am quite sure that was a calculated and deliberate performance, designed to elicit just such a reaction from you in an effort to get your attention. Malfoy doesn't seem the gratuitous PDA type to me unless he has some kind of endgame. However, I highly doubt he meant for you to try to give yourself alcohol poisoning," she chided, expression stern.

Reeling, Harry asked weakly, "Why couldn't you have told me all of this before?"

Hermione smiled sagely. (Ron drained his pint.) "Life changing revelations are better discovered on one's own," she said, rather mystically given her usual no-nonsense attitude. "And you two seem to have gotten things sorted. Finally."

Her smile turned wry. "I even got a shiny new trophy out of it."

She hoisted said trophy up to resounding cheers from the other occupants of the pub.

Harry and Ron gaped at the woman who would always be two steps ahead of them.

"To the Ministry Olympics!" she toasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes this silly little fic. We all knew Hermione was going to win, right? She always does ;)


End file.
